


Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

by werewolvesandarrows (nerdy_farm_girl)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (a little bit), Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - High School, Bets & Wagers, First Kiss, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, They all live on farms, Underage Drinking, dairy cattle showmen, farm au, stiles is starting college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/werewolvesandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles clearly hadn’t thought this whole thing through. When Erica had asked for his help, he had expected to be joined by the blonde, Cora and Isaac, the three members of the judging team. He was not anticipating the presence of tall, dark and scowly and his whole distracting persona. And he definitely wasn’t prepared to have to share the teaching stage with the aforementioned grump-a-saurus, or to be on the receiving end of some awfully judgmental stares. Bro had a stick so far up his ass he needed to make a trip to the ER. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>OR: Everybody lives on a farms in New England, and Stiles deals with his crush on Derek by denying it so hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> If you usually read my work, please be warned this is a Sterek fic, not one of my usual pairings!
> 
> This is my first Sterek fic, so please be gentle with me :) I just couldn't leave this two alone!
> 
> I decided to move them all too New England, because I'm pretty sure that showing cows and fairs and farms are very different in other parts of the country. If you have questions about what I mean by anything just let me know!
> 
> The Big E is the biggest fair in New England, and serves as kind of a regional competition for 4-H and FFA youth
> 
> This work has not been betaed

“Why would you wear a leather jacket in the middle of fucking August?” Stiles mused, eyes narrowed over the top of the magazine he was holding. There was no response from his friends, which should have been surprising, but it really wasn’t. Scott had a can of adhesive out, and was methodically spraying the super-duper hairspray all over his hand, letting it dry, and then peeling it off with an expression of sick satisfaction. Allison was curled up in the straw, her back resting against the curve of her showmanship heifer’s shoulder, eyes drooping. She wasn’t asleep though, instead she was methodically scraping the blade of her pocket knife across one spot on her jean clad thigh, attempting to make an artful hole. Lydia was sitting cross legged on her show box, nose buried in what looked to be a physics textbook.

Stiles heaved a disappointed sigh. This was their last summer showing cows, and their second to last local fair before the Big E. They should be having fun! Instead, his friends were moping around while he _alone_ was scoping out their competition for the regional quiz bowl contest. And contemplating if he wanted to pull out any of his old pranks to entertain himself with the unsuspecting public. But mostly glaring towards Derek Hale and his band of leather clad, supernaturally attractive, ass hats.

“If you’re going to hide behind a Hoard’s Dairyman, then you should at least hold it right ways up and read an article to expand your knowledge.” Lydia was totally judging him right now. He considered arguing with her, but instead just glared and righted this month’s issue of Hoard’s.

“I’m not hiding. I’m observing the competition.” Stiles felt kind of like a petulant child at this point, but he had no shame when it came to Lydia. None. He’d spent the majority of his life openly expressing his love for her. Which had somehow turned to fear and deep rooted respect. And love. But a different sort.

“Oh you're observing alright. I’m just not sure whose ass you’re ogling, Hale’s or Reyes’.”

“What! I am not! Shut up!” Stiles squawked, ducking down further behind his magazine when the Leather Clan all turned their judgmental smirks his way. “I hate you.” He hissed at Lydia, who had returned to reading her book. “Why are you doing school stuff anyways? How do you even have work? College hasn’t started yet.”

“My orientation leader recommended some books for me,” Lydia replied flippantly, not looking up from the pages. With a huff Stiles sunk lower against the bale of hay, ignoring the scratching at the back of his neck.

He had joined 4-H when he was ten years old, and started showing cows when he was eleven. Scott’s uncle had a dairy farm, and he allowed them to pick out calves to show in exchange for help around the farm. Uncle Joe had a herd mostly made up of Holsteins (those are the black and white ones) with a few Jersey’s mixed in to boost the butterfat content in the milk. At first, he and Scott had always chosen the cutest ones, or the ones with the best personality, which would make sense. If you didn’t want to win. Eventually (after losing a few too many years in row), Stiles finally got his act together and learned how to pick out the best and most promising heifers. He learned that he looked better with yearlings, because he was too tall for calves. He realized that even though fitting and showmanship was supposed to judge the showman’s skills, if he picked out a really nice cow, he was more likely to win. So he picked better heifers, and he taught himself how to properly fit a cow, and he and Scott split their spring time afternoons between lacrosse practice, milking for Uncle Joe, and working with their heifers. Now that they were in their last year (well technically they could still show next summer, but they had decided not to… they would be _real_ college students by then anyways), Scott and Stiles had improved greatly. In their class today, Stiles had placed second only to Lydia, and gotten Reserve Champion Showman (which meant he had beat out Derek Hale. So HA!).

Derek Hale was a pretentious ass hole just like the stupid ass [Red and White Holsteins](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQxF7tLga-oQI5oH1OYo0Tg2Xsd2u2DyW3R4VVF4oM09mKf6DlhmA) that he showed. Like seriously, what is so special about a red and white? Just because some idiot had too much time on their hands and decided to take the perfectly fine regular Holstein and selectively breed them until they came out a shade lighter. It’s not like there isn’t already a red and white cow. Oh wait. They’re called Ayrshires and they might be a little smaller, but they’re beautiful and bitchy and stubborn. Kind of like Lydia. And Stiles totally has a theory on that. He was pretty certain that most people ended up showing the type of cow that matched their personality. So you have Lydia with [Ayrshires](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/02/23/article-2105384-11DF7960000005DC-437_636x527.jpg). Then Scott ended up with [Brown Swiss](http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm1.staticflickr.com/57/152791191_664cbfe1b5_z.jpg%253Fzz%253D1&imgrefurl=https://www.flickr.com/photos/librarianmer/152791191&h=375&w=500&tbnid=Ja_YIiid3SwJPM:&zoom=1&docid=g1b9fgAAweC-yM&ei=2iF-VbD5PMSVyATHmoLoDw&tbm=isch&ved=0CDEQMygAMABqFQoTCLDO34C-kMYCFcQKkgodR40A_Q) (he saved up enough money to buy his own calf when he was fourteen), which are big and sad eyed and kind of like puppies. And Allison had regular [Holsteins](https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSMqwW7gKoH9Cfd8pdpWP0JIPX-6i_IAlthGZbVC5tezVefdYM2) (well they’re like award winning since her family has been in the show business for ever), and they are pretty much perfect and normal and nice, just like Allison. Stiles himself stuck with the [Jerseys](https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR4cfvo3_BmKky6vMEnFxkFlDV6mI1SpIegrHuF2fCzdzQvP0mb). Jerseys are absolutely adorable when they’re little, with their big doe eyes and black nose and little deer-like bodies. But the older they get, the bigger assholes they become. It’s true. Scott and Stiles did a study last summer while milking nights at the farm. A person is 95.2% more likely to get kicked by a Jersey than a Holstein. And those assholes have laser like precision. But Stiles loved them. Just like he hated Red and White Holsteins. And their incredibly good-looking, murder eyebrows possessing, leather jacket wearing owners.

“Hey Scott…” Stiles eyes snapped up to find one of Hale’s goons, Isaac Lahey, loitering in front of their cows. “I was wondering if I could borrow some Hocus Pocus? We ran out and I need to wash out my cow’s topline.” Oh no. There was no fraternizing with the enemy. Absolutely not.

“Yeah sure!” Scott beamed, pushing himself up onto his feet. “I’ve actually gotta wash Blossom anyways… I’ll meet you at the wash rack.” Isaac ducked his head, shot a shy smile in Allison’s direction, blushed and then turned on his heel.

“What are you doing?” Stiles hissed, flailing his arms and flapping his magazine around as dramatically as possible. “We are not friends with the Hell’s Angels over there!”

No response.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. Allison was staring after Isaac, unabashedly watching his ass as he walked. And Scott… Scott had been kind of in a daze ever since showmanship, when the fair queen (a girl named Kira who showed goats) had been handing out the ribbons. In a sundress. Wearing her sash and tiara. Kira, who was currently leaning against the chain-link fence of the show ring just outside the barn, chatting to a girl with wild hair and eyes and a mean looking pair of working steers, who Stiles was pretending not to recognize. He didn’t deal well with exes.

“Just because they are Connecticut’s quiz bowl team doesn’t mean we have to _hate_ them Stiles.” Lydia sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Maybe you should just go and-”

“And you are going to stop right there missy.” Stiles stumbled through the straw bedding and slapped a hand over her mouth. “ _This is war Lydia_. Who knows what secrets tweedle dee and tweedle dum will reveal.” Even with her mouth covered, Lydia still managed to look both supremely unimpressed and condescending. Stiles snatched his hand back, because you know, he wanted to _keep_ it.

“Al is going to be flirting and Scott is going to be staring at Kira and acting like the sweet little puppy that he is. No one is going to be ‘sharing secrets’. You’re just mad because no one asked you to go to the wash rack with them.”

“I… No… That’s…” Stiles gave up and flopped onto the show box beside her. She might have been right. Just a little bit. “I just want to win Lyds. This is our last year. Rhody pride and shit.”

“Oh, we’re going to win.” Lydia declared, closing her book with a loud snap. She turned a calculating gaze onto the Leather Clan at the other end of the barn. Stiles used this as an excuse to look too, scowling as Isaac led his own (admittedly very cute) [Milking Shorthorn](https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQrgJS10We2THJ9a0PqiTv_Nl_F7vTYjSGsCZU6rAHS5B0mMWS4Bg) calf down the aisle towards the smiling Allison and Scott. Derek Hale was watching Isaac too, a scowl on his face and arms folded and - apparently he’s taken _off_ the leather ensemble because now he was only wearing this in-fucking-decent light blue tank top and his biceps were bulging and… Stiles’ tongue suddenly felt a little big for his mouth.

“If you’re going stare, please glare don’t gape.” Lydia hissed with a sharp jab to his side. Stiles flinched and forced himself to focus, feeling his cheeks heat when he realized that Erica Reyes was smirking at him in a completely terrifying way. “If Reyes figures out you have a crush on Hale, she’ll use that to take us down.”

“I don’t have a crush on - where do you even - ugh!” Stiles flung himself to his feet and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his Carharrts. He turned to stand in front of the red head, his back to the Leather Clan and his slightly twitchy stare fixed on Lydia. “Can you stop saying-” He stopped when her phone vibrated loudly against the wooden show box, screen lighting up with the name Jackson Whittemore. “Oh for the love of God.”

The only kind of people he hated more than pretentious Red and White Holstein people, were Horse People. Well, not all horse people. Just the rich ones. Or, okay, just the rich douchebags named Jackson Whittemore who thought he was hot shit walking around in his little English equestrian get up. Like come on. Even Stiles knows that if you’re a horse guy you’re better off going the cowboy route. Ladies love cowboys. And Jackson Douchemore was a preppy dickhead.

Grumbling to himself Stiles turned from Lydia and clambered into the bedding, flopping down beside his heifer Luna. She gave him this bitchy _look_ with one big brown eye, before huffing a hot breath of air out of her nose.

“Don’t sass me.” Stiles admonished her, even as he scratched that one spot under her chin she loved. Almost instantly Luna stretched out her neck, her heavy head settling into his lap. Stiles curled into himself slightly, his cheek resting against the warm strength of her shoulder. He’d been known for falling asleep with his cow, had even made it into the local papers back when he was younger and cute. Now he was more likely to end up being ridiculed on Instagram, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Luna smelled like hay and silage, a little bit like manure, and a whole lot like pure _cow_. And Stiles loved it.

“I’m meeting up with Jackson!” Lydia called, and even though his eyes were closed, Stiles rolled them.

“Use protection!” He yelled back cheerfully, smirking to himself. Lydia deserved to be slightly mortified for ditching him. On barn duty. Again. Rude.

“Are you always this obnoxious or are you just showing off?”

Stiles squawked and jolted away from Luna, eyes flying open as his hands flailed about in the straw. Erica Reyes stood over him, hands on her hips. He gulped before steeling his nerve and narrowing his eyes. And carefully making eye contact. And not looking at anything else. Like her teeny tiny white tank top. Or her super short black cut-offs. Or her long legs ending in a worn out pair of cowgirl boots. Nope. Not noticing any of that.

“Do you make a habit of scaring the bejeezus out of people?”

Erica snorted, but sank down into the straw across from him, leaning her back against one of Lydia’s cows.

“Only the adorable ones,” she replied easily, winking one of her big brown eyes. She had eyes like a Jersey, Stiles thought. They were very pretty.

“You have beautiful eyes.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, but Stiles wasn’t sure he cared. Erica raised a brow.

“I have beautiful everything Stilinski,” she smirked, throwing a glance over her shoulder towards Hale and Boyd at the other end of the barn. “You trying to flirt with me?”

“Um?” Stiles grimaced, shifting anxiously in the straw. “Maybe? Yes? I don’t really know what you’re doing over here.” He curled his fingers around one of Luna’s ears in an attempt to stop himself from fidgeting. Erica grinned, and Stiles kind of wished this was the first time he’d been slightly terrified by a smiling woman. He _never_ wanted Erica and Lydia to be friends. _Ever_.

“I actually wanted to ask you a favor.” She ducked her head, blonde curls hiding her face for a moment. When she looked back up at him, her expression was gentler, her lips pursed almost shyly. “I um, me, Isaac and Cora are on the judging team for Connecticut, and uh, and you did really, really well last year, and we were wondering if you could give us some pointers? I know you want Rhode Island to win and everything, but Derek’s the only one still around from last year’s team, and in case you didn’t notice, he’s kind of a dick.” Stiles bit his lip to hold back a full on laugh.

“Aren’t you friends with him?”

“Unfortunately,” Erica let out a long suffering sigh. “He’s like besties with my boyfriend. Even though they don’t talk to each other. It’s weird.” She met his gaze with a smirk. “I just like to annoy him.” Stiles couldn't help but grin. He could relate on a molecular level with that.

“Sure,” he winked at her. “Like I could turn down an opportunity to irritate Derek Hale.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles clearly hadn’t thought this whole thing through. When Erica had asked for his help, he had expected to be joined by the blonde, Cora and Isaac, the three members of the judging team. He was _not_ anticipating the presence of tall, dark and scowly and his whole distracting persona. And he _definitely_ wasn’t prepared to have to share the teaching stage with the aforementioned grump-a-saurus, or to be on the receiving end of some awfully judgmental stares. Bro had a stick so far up his ass he needed to make a trip to the ER.

“So as I was saying,” Stiles purposefully turned his back on Sour Patch, facing the four Jersey heifers he’d managed to round up from various farms that had attended the fair. “Just because the third one is taller than the first one, doesn’t mean that she should win. Number one has more spring to her rib, wider hips and better legs. Number four has height, but she’ll fall apart once she’s bred.” There was a frankly _rude_ snort from behind him, but Stiles plowed on. “However, number two here is much too small for a winter yearling, and the fourth lacks any sort of depth, and the slope of her rump is all wrong. So that’s why I’d recommend placing them one, three, two four.” Grumpy Gills was silent, but Stiles whipped around to glare at him anyways. “Anything you’d like to add, _buddy_?” He infused as much acid into the final word as he could, sneering at Hale. The older boy just scowled, shoving his hands impossibly deeper into his jean’s front pockets. Stiles rolled his eyes. Well this was just super-duper fun. “Awesome, thanks for your input.” With another eye roll, he turned to face the other three. Who were of course, smirking at him. “What?” Erica just grinned at him. It was terrifying.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was not exactly pleased about his 4-H Club meeting at Hale’s Dairy Farm. It was all the way in Connecticut for God’s sake! That was like a twenty minute drive! How could a Rhode Islander even _think_ without the scent of fried calamari floating on an ocean breeze? Connecticut was filled with dick weeds (the assholes obviously come from M _ass_ achusetts). Their leader Ms. Morrell had attempted to explain to Stiles that it was important to see how different farms did things, that the Hale’s had prize winning cows, and that this year’s judging team had already visited all sixteen farms in Rhode Island. Stiles didn’t care. He had a RIVALRY to uphold here okay? This wasn’t no kid shit.

But it didn’t matter anyway, because he needed the points for the Big E _and_ he needed to make sure his protégé (even though Liam and Mason were little shits) were ready to beat the Connecticut team. (It had nothing to do with his burning curiosity regarding observation of Derek Hale in his natural habitat. Absolutely not.)

Laura Hale, the oldest (and most intimidating) was conducting the tour. They had started off in the calf barn, where Laura had grouped the heifers into groups of four for them to judge, all while explaining the daily chores related to the calves. Stiles was tuning her out, more interested in spying than anything else. Most of the calves were Holsteins, a pretty even mix between Red and Whites and the normal kind. He was surprised by the handful of Jersey and Holstein crosses (he liked to call them Jersteins), happily munching on hay amongst their purebred counterparts. Stiles LOVED [Jersteins](http://www.homestead.org/AllenaJackson/DairyCalves/patch.jpg). They were almost always completely black or dark chocolate brown, sometimes with white patches on their bellies or above their hooves. He didn’t care that they were crossbreeds, or that you had to breed them back to Jersey’s for three generations in a row before you could show them. They were beautiful. They milked better than pure Jerseys and they ate less than pure Holsteins, therefore making them the perfect cow for a small farmer (like _all_ the ones in New England). Stiles had legit done PROJECTS in his shit. And the Hales of all people had them.

“Color me intrigued,” he whispered to Scott, who just looked back at him like he was insane. It was a daily, no hourly occurrence.

They trailed after the group heading up towards the big barn, where the hum of the milking system going through its wash cycle could be heard.

“Most of the herd is still out in the pasture,” Laura explained as they entered the cool darkness. “But my sister and I brought in a couple early for you guys to judge.” She went on to explain that they still had a tie stall system, which meant the milking units had to be carried between pairs of cows and hooked up to the pipeline overhead.

“Thank God Joe upgraded to a parlor huh?” Stiles muttered to Scott, receiving an earnest nod in return. Carrying the machines around would suck. Hard. The younger club members were gathered around the first “class” of cows, looking mostly constipated as they concentrated. It was painful to watch. Glancing around, Stiles’ gaze fell on Allison and Lydia, who for some reason were standing in the open back door of the barn, just _watching_ something. Of course Stiles had to know what was going on, so he snuck over there like the total master sneak-er he was.

“What are you guys… oh…” There was another barn behind the one they were in, an almost empty hay trailer parked in front of it with a hay elevator leading up to the loft. But that wasn’t what the girls were staring at. Oh no. Because there was a freaking Greek God up on that hay trailer, biceps sweaty and flexing as he tossed bales to the second really attractive guy on the trailer. It took him a minute to realize he _knew_ those guys. And another minute for him to kind of hate himself just a little bit. Because it was Derek Hale and Isaac Lahey up there, and if he squinted he could make out the rest of the Hell’s Angels up in the hay loft.

Derek tossed the last bale to Isaac, actually appearing to chuckle before lifting the hem of his tank top to wipe sweat from his face. Stiles’ mouth went dry. He was like 95% sure that normal nineteen year olds didn’t have fucking abs like that. It was like his six pack had a six pack or something stupid. Stiles _hated_ it.

“Lord have mercy,” Lydia practically moaned beside him, her eyes a little glazed over. Stiles scowled at her and Allison, who was staring dreamily at Isaac.

Someone must have pulled the chord on the hay elevator, the mechanical clacking suddenly absent and replaced with birds chirping and the loud mooing of a single cow. Dragging his glare (he was _glaring_ okay? There was no ogling or appreciation going on here) away from the hay trailer that Derek was now sitting on the tongue of, Stiles focused in on the source of the frankly obnoxious mooing. There was a lone cow standing at the pasture gate, her big brown eyes fixed on the hay trailer. She mooed again, her voice going hoarse at the end as she flicked her tail in an almost exasperated manner. Even from his spot half hidden in the barn, Stiles was already falling deeply in love. She looked to be a Jersey cross, her almost black coat shining in the sun, her pink and black tongue showing every time she mooed in annoyance.

“Derek!” Cora marched out of the hay barn and towards the gate. “Teach your cow to shut the fuck up!” Stiles frowned. He had to have heard wrong. Derek Hale, the snobbiest of all dairy showmen, a fucking Red and White Holstein guy, could NOT have a Jerstein. But Cora had reached the gate, swatting at the cow when she ran past and kicked her back foot out. The cow ran right over to Derek, head butting him square in the chest before licking at his hand, her long sandpaper tongue curling around his fingers. Derek actually smiled, scratching at her ear with one hand and rubbing the other down her neck. Something was happening to Stiles’ heart as he watched the cow lay her big head in Derek’s lap, but he wasn’t about to examine what was going on there. No sirree bob. Now was NOT the time for _feelings_ and shit. He had a WAR to win. A WAR!

“It’d sure be nice if our senior members could impart their wisdom on us instead of… staring at the scenery.”

Stiles squawked at the sound of Ms. Morrell's voice behind him, spinning around in a whirlwind of flailing limbs and missing Allison’s face by a hair before catching himself on the door. Lydia and Allison reacted in a much more dignified manner, although Allison _was_ blushing. (Not as much as Stiles, but that’s not the point. Ok?)

“We’re _spying_ on the _competition_!” Stiles hissed, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. Ms. Morrell didn’t look impressed or convinced, so Stiles sighed and trudged after her. Laura Hale was watching him, her face splitting into a wide grin that made Stiles feel like he should be scared for his life. It was unnerving.

“Have no fear, Stiles is here!” He cheered, grinning madly at the rest of his 4-H club. The younger members were nonplussed, staring at him with black expressions. _Brats_.

“Woo hoo…” Liam twirled one finger in the air, and Stiles kind of wanted to smack the smug little grin right off his face. There was a snort from behind him, and Stiles glared over his shoulder, flushing at the sight of Derek Hale and his cow. Derek had his stupid signature smirk on his face. Stiles hated it. There was SEETHING HATRED happening here. Huffing, he spun back around to glower at his peers.

“Must I remind you little runts that _I_ placed first in the judging competition the Big E last year? So stick that in your juice boxes and suck it!” This earned him another round of unimpressed eye rolls and an exasperated sigh from Ms. Morrell. Throwing his hands in the air, he attempted to make a dramatic exit. In the end he kind of just slouched over to Scott, Lydia and Allison. Who were in the process of inviting Derek’s _gang_ to _their_ bonfire next weekend. What. The. Fuck.

“What’s going on here?”

“Keep your panties on Stilinski,” Lydia sighed, turning her attention back to Erica. “So yeah, bonfire at my place. We usually start around nine.” Stiles narrowed his eyes as Erica smirked and then _winked_ at him.

“We’ll be there.” She promised.

Why was this his life?

* * *

 

“Allieeee! Allie Cat babyyyyyy! You keep me waiting!” Stiles moaned, leaning morosely against the front door of the Argent family home. Mansion. Whatever. He was here to pick up Allison because they were bros. Going on a bro date. ‘Cause they were just cool like that. (Actually Scott was going to meet Kira The Fair Queen’s parents out in East Bumfuck Connecticut and Lydia… Lydia just wasn’t fun for the kind of activities planned for the day. Like driving all the way to Scituate to try out their fake IDs. And maybe take the jeep through a mud hole or two on the way home).

“Allisonnnnnnnn, I know the world is killing you,” he warbled, face pressed to the door. “Oh Allisonnnnn-” The door swung open and Stiles stumbled across the threshold, only to be caught by a rough hand around his arm.

“Stilinski. You sound like a dying cat. Shut it.” Allison’s dad sighed with distaste, his nose wrinkled like Stiles smelled. Which… He sniffed his armpit. Yeah, he’s good, he remembered to put on the old deo this morning.

“Sure thing my good sir.” He grinned easily at Chris, who just rolled his eyes and yelled up the stairs.

“Al! Your weird little friend is here!” Stiles huffed and straightened his t-shirt, fighting the urge to knock his boots together and possibly leave some dried manure on the floor. As a present. For Chris. Thankfully Allison came clattering down the stairs, saving him from that possibly life-ending decision (her mom was one scary lady okay) with her Disney princess dimples turned up high.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she hummed, ducking in to kiss his cheek before shoving her feet into a pair of cowboy boots. “Come on, let’s see how much trouble we can get ourselves into!”

 

The answer to that: A FUCKING LOT. Allison and Stiles should not be set lose on the world together. Ever again. They’d managed to successfully purchase a bottle of Captain (well _Allison_ had. She was cute and had boobs and wasn’t a chicken shit Sheriff’s son. But _whatever_. Semantics.) Then they _almost_ got the Jeep stuck in the mud bog, and had emerged with mud all over the outside of the jeep, inside of the jeep, and themselves. Which hello, they looked damn good covered in mud (their selfie captioned #bros5eva #getmuddy #jeepsdoitbetter #gotalittlemudonthetires got almost 100 likes on Instagram. Suck on that Lydia). Once the sun had started to set, they’d headed over to Lydia’s and Stiles had the pleasure of harassing Jackson Douchemore as the prick attempted to start the bonfire. (Lydia and Allison had to take over eventually because they were both astonishingly competent and completely bad ass). That’s when things started to go downhill. Fast.

There were kids everywhere, sitting on tailgates and leaned back against picnic tables, the firelight casting eerie shadows across everyone’s faces. Stiles and Allison were perched on the Jeep's rear roll bar, feet resting on the back seat, half empty bottle of Captain passing between them.

“How is it that Scott always gets girls? I thought they didn’t like _nice_ guys! Look at me. I’m an asshole. The ladies should be flocking!” Stiles whined, taking a chug of rum. At this point he didn’t even notice the warmth that spread through his chest with each swallow.

“Isaac was supposed to be here…” Allison sighed, dragging the bottle towards her and taking an impressively long swig. Apparently they were just having two separate conversations with each other. “He looks like a… cherub. I just want to pinch his cute little cheeks.” Stiles squinted at the firelight, his brain working hard to connect things in his head. Isaac… Isaac was friends with Erica. And… _Derek_. His heart lurched in his chest, and Stiles scowled. This was pathetic.

“Hey come on.” He jumped down to the ground, stumbling slightly before turning to help Allison (she was as expected, much more graceful in her dismount). “We’re hot, single and ready to fucking mingle! Let’s dance!” Allison laughed but followed him up into the back of somebody’s truck, her fingers curled loosely around the bottle of Captain. There was country music blaring from the speakers set up on the roof of the truck, and Stiles was just drunk enough to not care if anyone was watching him dance. So he threw his hands in the air and swung his hips and sang along with a giggling Allison.

The bed of the truck was filling steadily with girls, their bodies bumping and grinding up against Stiles. It was fucking awesome. Stiles was in his _element_. He was taking another chug of rum when he felt eyes on him. He lowered the bottle and spun slowly around, hips still rolling with the beat.

Derek Hale was staring at him.

If Stiles hadn’t consumed so much alcohol, he probably would have dived behind Allison and hid. Instead he let his eyes linger, flicking her gaze over Derek and his too tight jeans and snug black t-shirt and eyes that seemed to glow underneath the brim of his John Deere hat. God fucking dammit he was hot. A new song began to play, and Stiles bit his lip. Aw yeah. This was his fucking jam. He would seduce this asshole with his tantalizing dance moves.

“Well I walk into the room passing out hundred dollar bills,” he sang along with the song, never taking his eyes off Derek, even as other people danced up against him. He couldn’t really tell, but he was like 93% sure that Derek was watching his every move.  “Save a horse ride a cowboy!” He smirked, swinging an imaginary lasso over his head and thrusting his hips. He could see Derek swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Stiles wanted to _bite_ it. He grinned, debating the merits of jumping down off that tailgate and dancing on over to Derek. That was one cowboy he’s totally be down to ride.

“Oh my God Stiles!” Allison hissed, her eyes big and round. And _whoops_ , there was a slight possibility that he’d been thinking out loud. It’s alright. He could deny deny deny. Like Shaggy said, _It wasn’t me_. He was about to spit out an undoubtedly water-tight argument that he _was not_ referring to Derek Hale when big hands were grabbing him and pulling him down to the ground.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink.” There was a voice low and hot against his ear. Stiles ducked his head and rubbed his ear against his shoulder, glaring up at the Fun Ruiner (capitalization is totally necessary here). The aforementioned Fun Ruiner had gorgeous eyes that looked green or maybe blue. It was hard to see in the shadowy light.

“Says who?” he demanded, yanking out of the grip of impressively strong and muscular arms, only to stumble over air and tip towards the fire. A big hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged him back to safety. Which happened to be right up against a _very_ firm chest.

“Says me.” Derek Hale smirked down at him, his face _way_ too pretty to even be real right now.

“Hmmm,” Stiles hummed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Well…. since yer super pretty… I guess I’ll maybe listen to you.” He thought Derek might have huffed out a laugh, but then his stomach turned and everything went to shit. Literally.

 

Well not quite literally.

 

Almost though.

 

Just out the other end.

 

Okay. He was grossing himself out at this point.

 

Anyways, after spending the next day moping with an equally hung over Allison, Stiles was prepared to _never_ speak of that night again. He couldn’t exactly remember much past deciding to dance in the bed of Jordan’s truck, although there were bits and pieces floating around in his head. There was a distinct possibility that he told Derek Hale he was pretty. Stiles was determinedly holding on to that 2% chance that he completely created that memory out of thin air. It didn’t happen. There was no such thing. And Derek Hale _was not_ pretty. He was rude and annoying. So that’s the end of that.

 

The start of college managed to push those traumatizing memories to the back of his mind, instead focusing on finding the best commuter parking lot at URI and how early he’d have to get there to have time to stop by Bagelz for coffee and breakfast. He had already decided after a week of classes that he and Scott were _definitely_ renting a house down in Bonnet together next year. He didn’t care if he had to get a job to afford it. IT WAS HAPPENING. Who wouldn’t want to live in a beach house, with the bestest bro ever, surrounded by neighborhoods filled with other college kids. IT SOUNDED AWESOME. (Of course they’d have to find roommates that Stiles could tolerate, but they wouldn’t have to worry about that for a couple months anyways).

On top of all the school stuff, Stiles, Scott, Lydia and Allison had been studying nightly (via skype) for the quiz bowl competition at the Big E. Stiles had thought that Lydia would be less intimidating and domineering over video chat. He was wrong. Dead wrong.

“Stilinski. Answer the question.” She demanded, managing to glare at him from his computer screen. Stiles made a face. His concentration was non-existent at the moment. It’d been a long ass day.

“Can you repeat the question?” He asked with an overly bright grin.

“I literally just said it…” Scott groaned. It looked like he might be banging his head on his desk. It was definitely possible.

“He’s probably thinking about Derek’s ass,” Allison added. Stiles glared at his computer.

“I thought we agreed not to EVER mention this again!”

“Oh my god focus.” Lydia hissed, the clapping of her hands loud over the speakers. “The question is: The disease acetonomia is commonly referred to as this:” Stiles sighed. He fucking _knew_ this shit. It was just the ability to pull it out of his brain that sometimes tripped him up. Thankfully, his friends remained silent, giving him the five seconds he needed to fully process everything.

“Ketosis.” He answered firmly, allowing himself a smug grin when Lydia nodded and smiled only slightly. _Success_. They were going to kick Connecticut’s ass.

 

Okay. So Stiles _might_ have underestimated the impact of dealing with the threat of running into Derek Hale and/or his minions at all hours of the day. It didn’t help matters that Rhode Island was sharing an aisle with Connecticut this year. He had been hoping they’d share with Maine, because the dudes from Maine were like super chill. But no. Of course not. He’d have preferred even fucking Massachusetts over Connecticut. But now his life included way too many Derek Hale sightings, and a few too many awkward diving behind show box escape attempts. He didn’t have _time_ to waste figuring out how to best avoid Derek. No. They’d only been at the Big E since noon, and in less than three hours all the 4-Hers would have to take the mandatory knowledge test. Everybody else got to sit in big groups out on the bleachers, blatantly cheating off each other and generally not giving two shits. The quiz bowl teams however, had to sit inside at individual desks, with grumpy old people monitoring them. Stiles hated it.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t know this stuff. Because he did. He knew it so hard. That’s how they got into quiz bowl in the first place. He’d beat everybody else out in the knowledge test three years in a row, so Ms. Morrell was eventually forced to recruit him. It was just… There were too many things to think about right now. He couldn’t focus. (The fact that Tall, Dark and Grumpy had been assigned the desk _right_ beside him wasn’t helping anything. Stiles suspected that someone was trying to sabotage him. Isaac probably. Or Boyd. That guy could be a shady as fuck sometimes.) Shaking himself out of it, he stared down at his test paper.

 

_Which part of the digestive system does Cryptosporidiosis (crypto) affect?_

_a) reticulum_   
_b) rumen_   
_c) small intestine_   
_d) omasum_

Okay. This was easy. He circled the little c with flourish, grinning to himself. Awww yeah. Kicking ass and taking names. Derek sighed at the desk next to him, and Stiles had to fight back his first instinct to like let out a growl or something. Tonight was not the time for growling. It was the time for fucking WINNING.

 

_To help prevent milk fever, which of the following is the best time to feed anionic salts to dairy cows?_

_a) during the 3 weeks after calving_   
_b) during the 2 weeks before calving_   
_c) at the beginning of the dry period_

 

Yo. He had this. Joe had him give the cows salts all the time. Stiles even kept a calendar for that special. He circled b and moved on to the next one.

 

_The Net Energy requirement of lactating cows is closest to:_

_a) .75 Mcal/lb_   
_b) 1.2 Mcal/lb_   
_c)  2.0 Mcal/lb_

 

And that one needed to be skipped.

 

_In terms of heat stress, what does THI stand for?_

 

It was all good. He fucking _knew_ this shit. They were going to win this fucking competition hands down.

 

* * *

 

Stiles had never felt so relieved in his entire life. Even though he’d been showing cows for eight years, showmanship classes always gave him anxiety. It was the fact that _he_ was being judging, not the animals that made him nervous. He didn’t like to fail. He’d placed third in his class, and that was perfectly fine with him. Winning at quiz bowl, winning for his brain, was currently much more important to him. Of course… the fact that Derek had won reserve champion showman (which meant he was the second best showman in New England) kind of pissed him off. And he _may_ have glared at the dude the few times he’d seen him (and not been able to dive behind a trash can or something). Which whatever. He could get over it.

Bending over, he grabbed the hose from where it was lying on the concrete and started to spray Luna down. She gave him some serious side eye, dancing away from the cold water and kicking at him with one back hoof.

“Cut the shit Lu,” he grumbled, glad that he was alone at the wash rack. “This is literally the last time you’ll ever have to be washed.” By this time next year, Luna would be a working part of Uncle Joe’s herd. She was due to have her first calf next summer. Stiles was going to miss her. Maybe. If she stopped trying to kick him like a complete dickwad.

“Stiles.”

Stiles spun around with a yelp, the nozzle gripped tightly in one hand and a sudsy brush in the other, only to find Derek Hale. Glowering at him. With dripping hair. And a white t-shirt. That was soaked through and translucent and fucking _clinging_.

“Derek!” Stiles forced a grin. “Sorry bout that big guy.” Derek stepped closer, pushing his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. There was fucking water droplets on his mother fucking eyelashes. Jesus Fucking Christ.

“S’okay.” Derek murmured with a shrug. Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking audibly. What was going on here? Why was this is his life? Where did he sign up to be this close to a wet Derek Hale?

“So uh, what’s up dude?” He was _so_ close. And there was a small part of Stiles that wanted to fist his hand in that white t-shirt and yank the older boy in for a kiss.

“You’ve been avoiding me…” Derek mumbled after a moment, scuffing the toe of his boot across the concrete.

“I’ve been… what are you… no!” Stiles scoffed, sure his cheeks were burning bright red. Derek glanced up at him, and _wow_ who said it was okay to have eyes like that? So unfair.

“You actually tried to hide from me in a wheelbarrow Stiles. And then you _glared_ at me when I asked if you were okay.” Stiles gaped, his mouth hanging open in what he assumed was an unattractive look.

“Yeah but… you _hate_ me! Why do you even care?”

“I don’t hate you Stiles.” Derek’s brow furrowed, and Stiles fought the urge to reach out and smooth the creases. “I actually really…. why would you think that?” This really wasn’t the conversation Stiles pictured have this afternoon… or well EVER. He shrugged, letting his lips twist into a lopsided smirk.

“You know man. It’s our thing! You hate me, I hate you, and it’s mutual.”

Derek flinched back from him, his expression shuttering, turning blank. He spun on his heel and stalked off, hands curling into fists at his sides. Stiles watched him go, unsure as to why he suddenly felt like he needed to throw up.

 

* * *

 

“You continue to surprise me with the infinite extent of your stupidity.”

Lydia was judging him _so_ hard. If he hadn’t been so busy moping, he might’ve found it in him to be a little more offended.

“I don’t even know what I did!” Stiles whined, pressing his face into Allison’s thigh. The three of them along with Scott were half hidden behind Rhode Island’s giant feed bin, and Stiles was stretched across a bale of hay with his head in Allison’s lap.

“You told Derek you hated him bro.” Scott’s tone was serious, and Stiles would bet money that his best friend was contemplating buying Derek ice cream or something stupid.

“So? He hates me back.”

There was no response from his friends, so Stiles lifted his head to find all three of them looking at him with matching exasperated expressions. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sweetie,” Allison said gently, smoothing her hand over his unruly hair. “Derek definitely does not hate you.”

“Yes he does!” Stiles protested. “It’s like our thing! We’re rivals! Like… Like the Red Sox and the Yankees you know?” There was definitely pity mixed in with the exasperation now. That was just _rude_. He needed new friends.

“No, he really doesn’t.” Lydia said matter-of-factly. “Have you seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching?”

“No!” Stiles pushed himself up and flapped his arms. “Probably because I’m not LOOKING!”

“Stiles.”

“ _AND_ if this is even remotely true, why didn’t he just _say_ something instead of storming off?”

“How would you react if the guy _you_ had a crush on told you that they hated you?” Scott asked, his words like a punch to the gut.

Stiles didn't know what to say.

“I fucked up.” He admitted after a few moments of silence. Lydia nodded, her lips curling into a sad smile.

“Yeah. You really did.”

* * *

 

Stiles _should_ be focusing right now. The Quiz Bowl champion title was on the line, and he needed to be bringing his A-game. Their team was up in the first round versus Massachusetts, with the four remaining teams watching them in small groups spread through the small auditorium. The moderator was talking, probably explaining the rules, but Stiles was distracted. Heavily.

The Connecticut team was sitting front and center, all four of them _glaring_ at him. Well, _Derek_ was glaring at the floor, but really Erica’s stink eye alone would have been sufficient. Even so, Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off Derek. He wanted to run his fingers through that carefully gelled hair, wanted to pull that stupid polo off and free his straining biceps. He wanted to tell him how cute his ears and little bunny teeth were, and most of all he wanted to make Derek Hale smile. Though he’s probably ruined his chances for that.

“Pay attention!” Lydia hissed with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Stiles flinched and tapped his pencil against the table, ran his thumb over the buzzer assigned to him. He didn’t have _time_ for a Derek Hale Feelings Crisis right now. No sirree bob.

“First question: which state was the first to make tampering with show cows a crime?”

Stiles jammed his thumb down, but Lydia beat him to it, the red light in front of her glowing brightly. “Ms. Martin?” The moderator asked.

“Ohio.”

“Correct.” The moderator didn’t even crack a smile. “Most proteins contain what percentage of Nitrogen?” This time Stiles was fast enough, answering with 16% and earning their team another point.

They beat Massachusetts easily, earning a spot in the next round. The four of them settled in the back watching as the Vermont and Connecticut teams took their places. Who decided to let Derek Hale put on fucking khakis? That ass should not be _legal_. Not that Stiles would turn down an opportunity to like _touch_ it. Stiles’ mind drifted, and he imagined kneeling in front of Derek, slowly unbuttoning his pants, pulling the zipper down with his teeth, Derek’s hands fisted in his hair. _Fuck_. He shifted in his seat, attempting to discreetly adjust himself. Scott gave him a look full of disappointment and maybe a little disgust. _Whatever_.

His… predicament only got worse when Derek started answering questions. Apparently he has a _serious_ brain kink. It didn’t help that Derek caught him staring blatantly a couple of times, the tips of his ears turning pink as he glowered at the table. Stiles was stuck somewhere between wanting to coo at him and wanting to suck his dick.

Connecticut beat Vermont by two points, and as soon as the moderator announced a break, Stiles shot out of his seat. _Something_ had to happen here. He barreled towards Derek, ignoring Erica’s death glare as he grabbed Derek’s wrist.

“Can I speak with you for a minute?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer before dragging Derek off towards the bathrooms. He tugged him down the hallway and around the corner, not stopping until the sound of voices faded. Releasing Derek’s wrist, he started to pace, boots heavy on the tiled floor.

“What do you want Stiles?” Derek growled, his big hands clenched into fists. And he really should have actually _planned_ this whole thing out a little better.

“I don’t _hate_ you Derek!” He blurted, hands flying up into the air before falling to his thighs with a loud slap.

“Whatever,” Derek shrugged. “You don’t have to apologize for the way you feel.” He pushed away from the wall, striding back towards the auditorium.

“Derek come on!” Stiles groaned. Unsurprisingly, Derek didn’t stop. “Oh fuck this shit.” He hissed under his breath, running down the hallway after him. “I’m fucking trying to talk to you asshole!” Derek stopped at that, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“Well maybe I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Stiles hissed and pulled himself up to his full height, pressing into Derek’s space. He didn’t miss the way Derek sucked in a breath, or how his eyes seemed drawn to Stiles’ lips.

“I guess I better try a different method then.” Derek froze, but he didn’t step back. Stiles moved as slowly as he could, cupping Derek’s cheek with his right hand. Derek leaned ever so slightly into the touch, and that was all the encouragement Stiles needed to close the distance between them.

Derek’s lips were surprisingly soft, perhaps even more so in contrast to the five o’clock shadow beginning to appear on his jaw.

But he didn’t kiss back.

The rejection felt like a knife to the gut, and Stiles stumbled back half a step.

“Sorry, sorry,” he dropped his hands from where they’d somehow landed on Derek's chest. “I didn’t mean - I guess I read that wrong.” He pulled back more, resisting the urge to run his hands through his own hair. “I’ll just uh… sorry dude.” Before he could turn around and maybe escape with what little dignity he had left, he was spun around and pressed against the wall.

“This better not be your idea of a joke Stiles,” Derek growled, his thumb tracing across Stiles’ lower lip. Stiles debated the merits of being a grown up and using his words, actually having a conversation with Derek. Instead he parted his lips, watching Derek’s pupils dilate as he sucked his thumb into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek breathed. Stiles was instantly hard, turned on by how _wrecked_ Derek sounded, how warm his hands were, how good it felt to have that toned body all up in his space. Derek pulled his thumb out with a wet pop, his hands cradling Stiles’ face, and then suddenly he was being _kissed_.

Derek’s lips were impossibly better when they were actively participating, and Stiles never wanted this to stop. He slid his fingers through Derek’s hair, earning a low moan when he pulled on the strands. _Fuck_. He didn’t have all that much experience with kissing, but he knew what _he_ liked, so he ran with it. Tugging on Derek’s bottom lip with his teeth got him a sub vocal growl, soothing the bite with his tongue got him pressed harder against the wall with Derek’s thigh shoved between his own and Derek’s tongue curling against his. Derek’s lips slid across his jaw and down to his neck, biting and licking and sucking. Stiles threw his head back hard against the wall, hips jerking in little abortive thrusts.

“Derek,” he sighed, tightening his fingers in Derek’s hair and holding him to his neck. This _never_ needed to end.

The sound of someone _choking_ had Stiles popping one eye open.

“Really?” Scott groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. And honestly, Stiles had heard more than enough about Scott’s sex life for this to be anything but fair. “You couldn’t have waited till tomorrow?” Now _that_ grabbed Stiles’ attention, and he opened both eyes in time to watch Boyd, Isaac, Allison and Scott begrudgingly handing money over to the smug Erica and Lydia. Oh man did he have a few _choice_ words for those assholes.

Derek seemed content to ignore them, capturing Stiles’ lips in another almost desperate kiss. And yeah… Stiles could deal with his so called friends later.

* * *

 

“So uh, you’re at URI right?” Derek seemed almost shy as he kicked his heels against Stiles’ show box. Stiles nodded, leaning a little harder against Derek’s shoulder. They’d managed to stop making out long enough for the Rhode Island Quiz Bowl team to take the championship title, with Connecticut coming in a close second. (Stiles firmly denies his use of innuendos and bedroom eyes to distract Derek). It was their last night at the Big E, and Stiles had never been so sad to leave in his entire life. “Well um…” Derek curled an arm around Stiles, pulling him closer and releasing a ragged breath against his ear. “I go there too and a… Me and Boyd have a house down in Bonnett.” Hope and happiness bloomed in Stiles’ chest, and he couldn’t help but squirm around until he could grin up at Derek.

“Is this your way of inviting me over for some hanky-panky?” A lady walking past with her son gasped, and Stiles was 87% sure Liam was choking on his baked potato on the other side of the aisle. Derek’s cheeks flamed red and he covered his face with one hand.

“I don’t know why I like you.”

“It’s my dashing looks, incredible brain, and the infamous Stilinski charm,” Stiles chirped with a grin. Derek shook his head, his lips curling into the tiniest of smiles.

“Something like that.”

That was all Stiles needed to hear. Now he just needed to get his hands on a leather jacket.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me on [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com) if you want to come say hi! :)


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